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  No. Dragons didn’t need those emotions.

  She rubbed her palms over her eyes, trying to block the memories. They only flooded her more strongly. The scent of tilc-dust, a curative for metal and a fixative for slatesheen. The careful flames from her parents’ mouths as they tempered steel and twisted blonde copper between their fingers. The feel of those same metals in her hands, turning from liquid to solid and back to liquid, rippling around wires and cords. It was effortless. Her favorite game, due to both the ease and the amazement on her parents’ faces. “She’s catching on so quickly. She seems to know instinctively what devices need.”

  Kesia sank to her knees, barely aware of the deck beneath her knees. She wrung her hands and felt the scales emerging before the memory tore at her again.

  Fear twisting her mother’s happiness into worry. “Do you think she could challenge—”

  “I don’t know. And she should never have to find out.”

  “But times are desperate—”

  “Hasn’t your brother done enough to her?”

  Flames shooting from her mother’s throat. “He saved her life!”

  “And who knows what else he’s done to her.”

  “I won’t have her living in fear.”

  “And I won’t have her be bloodstained as we are.”

  No. She was stained with only one person’s blood: her father’s.

  But the monster had been so scary. Coming at her, toward her corner in the farthest part of the cave, light from the entrance flaring around his mangled figure, scales mixed with skin and clothing, metal sunk in around his neck and head. Claws reaching out for her.

  Dried brown caked her father’s hideous figure. Dried brown and fresh, slick red that smelled familiar, though never in such quantities. Whose blood? Where was the monster? Where had the monster gone?

  Why couldn’t she remember?

  This was it, then. Kesia would spend an hour consumed in memories before being called out as a fraud. Would the Congruency bother interrogating her, or would they kill her right there? Shance would be upset about blood on the deck of his ship, but tilc and water could clean up anything.

  The memory took her again. This time, Kesia didn’t fight it. Let the memories come. At least she would know the truth about herself.

  Her father reached to her out of the greenish haze, his misshapen mouth croaking incoherently. Croaking like a raven. She had always liked ravens.

 

  She was ten years old, just tall enough to reach the work table and wield her father’s pipe cutter.

  Relief and deep sorrow relaxed the monster’s features. His face formed a snarl, snaggled with a mixture of human and dragon teeth. He took another step toward her.

  Rage burned her throat. Her grip tightened painfully on the pipe cutter.

 

  She tried to find a way around the monster. She wasn’t a killer. She was a maker, just like her parents.

  The rock face pressed against her back. There was no escape.

  The monster had killed her parents. The last of the Ironfire line was extinguished, except for her. Her rage flamed higher, and a stream of fire exploded from her throat, hitting the creature’s shoulder.

  He sneered.

  “Stay away from me!” The ground shook beneath her with the resonance of her voice.

  Fear showed in his eyes, but he only made another croaking laugh.

  Something dark rose within her, streaming out of her vocal cords in a maelstrom of fury and fear. The room quaked violently, her little cot and chair in a corner rattling against the floor.

  Then suddenly, everything became still in her head. Her screams became their own song, weaving among the substances around her and reducing them to nothing. The chair melted to the ground and the ceiling dripped into living stalactites, sliding over her skin and leaving no mark. She was beyond them. Above them.

  Before her, the monster shimmered, and she knew that he was solid no more.

  And then, it happened. The melting. It started with his skin slithering and sliding off his form. The rest followed in nauseating waves, muscles and bones and everything else that composed a being. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t.

  He’d called her his star. Only her parents called her that, from the earliest moment she could remember.

  Tears spilled down her cheeks, and her chest shook with sobs.

  She had killed him. She’d killed her father.

  Why? He’d acted like a monster. Why had he tricked her?

  She fell to her knees next to him, her hands shaking from grief.

  It didn’t matter. She was still guilty.

  Smoke arose from the puddle on the ground, a hideous cloud of bilious green that filled the corners of the cavern. It silenced her voice, choking her. She fell over, the rocks cutting into her cheek.

  Green smoke.

  She gasped. The Silver Streak snapped into focus around her, the portside engine looming in front of her. How had she gotten to the engine room?

  A glance at the planks above her revealed a human-sized hole melted in the ceiling. That couldn’t be real. She couldn’t have fallen through the deck. More knowledge filtered into her mind. Melting and shaping materials had been her mother’s Talent.

  But a dragon or human only inherited one Talent, or else their own, unique Talent emerged. She’d never heard of anyone receiving both Talents.

  And where had the cavern-shaking scream come from? She’d melted her father by yelling at him? It was almost as if something had made her stronger. Some other force.

  Before her, a greenish haze of smoke particles surrounded the portside engine. Impossible. Any smoke should have dissipated at this point, yet the poisonous fumes wreathed the tall column with its steam-furnace, brass coolant tubes, and auxiliary wind turbines.

  The same smoke that had consumed her father during his final moments.

  A shapeshifter. Her father had been an animal shifter like her. He had been between skin and scales and something else when she saw him, with clumps of fur and feathers. A monster. As if he couldn’t properly stay in any one form. Or like something had stopped him from shifting, something that had frozen his Talent in an odd, in-between stage.

  How long had she been locked in her memories? Did she have enough time to fix anything?

  She had to try. Whatever had held her back before vanished. Her father had killed her mother, then tricked her into killing him, but something else had started the process long before he’d invaded her cave. The green smoke. It had been used on board The Silver Streak and in the Pinnacle. Her parents had reported directly to a special part of the organization.

  The SPU.

  They had killed her father, mutilated him beyond recognition. Kesia had simply finished the job, putting him out of the misery of being trapped in that horrible mixture of forms. That’s what he’d wanted.

  She needed to talk to Zephryn. He could explain the rest. Together, their minds could solve anything.

  Right now, she was under a deadline, and she realized she didn’t need anything Shance had taught her about ships or tools. For her, mechanics didn’t work like that. Fixing things didn’t have to be cold and rigid. It could be warm and organic. Fluid. The wires and gears and bolts didn’t have to stay in
their shapes. They could be whatever she wanted them to be. Whatever was needed to fix the problem.

  Kesia could almost see her mother’s smile. Never let what you know limit you, my star. Only let it guide you to find new solutions.

  First, she had to get rid of the smoke particles. They were so small that no one else could see them; too small, she assumed, to affect Talents. But they still bothered her, like a cloud of toxic gnats. She waved her hand at them, pulling them away from the engine and into her palm. Kesia squeezed her hand into a fist, condensing the particles into a small disc. She opened her hand. The particles heated. Melted. Vanished into invisible vapor, too small to ever hurt anyone again.

  Now, she just had to fix the engine. The problem was, the outer shell was in the way. All of that troublesome metal.

  Find a solution. The smoke particles had been visible to her when no one else had seen them. Her mother had always known where the smallest bits of metal were going.

  As if she’d had special vision. Had Kesia inherited that too?

  She squinted.

  Nothing. Apparently there were limits to these Talents. Well, there was no point in being able to manipulate metals if she couldn’t be sure of what she was doing.

  “Come on, Kesia, remember!”

  She closed her eyes and tried to picture her mother at work, hands shaping metal, bursts of fire coming from her mouth, goggles over her eyes… goggles. She had had goggles.

  Kesia fumbled through the tool pouch at her waist, hoping Shance had included something like that. Screwdrivers, pliers, some kind of miniature torch, and—

  “Goggles. Please work.” She slipped them on.

  Please. Another word Shance had taught her to show others kindness. Unfortunately, it didn’t work on the goggles. She pressed her fingers over the sides and found a switch. Suddenly, the lights turned on. Everything inverted. Grayish shapes surrounded her, outlined in white, each composed of parts broken down to lines and points and tangents.

  Kesia looked at the engine again and smiled.

  “Hi there. Let’s have fun.”

  Chapter 14

  They had mutilated his ship.

  The repair status was bleak. The Silver Streak would be grounded six weeks, if not longer. The mechanics, carpenters, and electricians couldn’t begin building new until they had broken down the old.

  But more than that, they’d defaced the heart of Shance’s ship. The beautiful masthead and stunning bronze plating with wings and intricate runes were gone. Never mind that no one knew what the runes meant. They were tradition and hope and good luck that had been passed down from his forefathers.

  Anger tightened his chest. Doldrums! It had to be Brody’s doing. Retribution for spoiling his plans.

  Shance forced himself to listen to the head shipbuilder. General Markem looked unsurprised at the news, merely making notes on a pad of paper. General Brody, however, looked ready to burn a hole through Shance’s skull. Thankfully, his Talent was far more benign: he could perceive the color of anything by touching it.

  As soon as Markem had stepped away to discuss other ships with the chief engineer and officer of repairs, Brody cornered Shance.

  “What the flaming sky do you think you’re doing?” He closed in, not quite touching him, but close enough for Shance to know he’d had smoked fish for breakfast. “When I told you about the Grand Count’s offer, you were supposed to accept, not go behind my back and pull out a fake betrothal! Where did you find this girl, anyway? How much are you paying her?”

  Shance set his jaw. “I’m not paying her anything, sir. She is my betrothed. All of the papers on our engagement have been filed with the proper authorities.”

  “An engagement you neglected to mention when that music girl was sitting in your lap! This First Mechanic Kesia Ironsley shows up right after you turn down Countess Nula’s proposal. Very convenient for you, Captain Windkeeper.”

  Shance set his jaw. “I believe I have answered all of these questions before. Sir.”

  Brody harrumphed. “You do understand that all of this has resulted in the Grand Count withdrawing the additional monies for the repair crew. We are behind schedule because of you.”

  “Well then, my betrothed has come at just the right time.” Considering Kesia’s hour was nearly up, Shance could only hope Fiarston and Viorstan had favored him in some way by granting her miraculous mechanical powers.

  “One Talented mechanic in exchange for wealth, privilege, and security, not just for yourself, but for the Congruency fleet. And the Countess is easy on the eyes too. The Grand Count is a leading member of the Curious Intrigue! They have ties to every city in the Congruency. Gods, can’t you see I was trying to do you a favor?”

  “With all due respect, sir, I don’t need your favors or the honor of entrance into some secret society of half-drunk men and gossipy women.” Anger flared in Shance, and he fought to keep from shouting. “I was conscripted into the war effort to serve the Congruency because I had no other choice. In the situation with the Countess, I had a choice, and I made it.”

  An odd urgency came into General Brody’s eyes. “Yes, well, I only hope that choice doesn’t get you killed.”

  Shance exhaled, trying to keep his tone level. “The only thing that will kill me, sir, is the removal of my masthead.”

  “That old thing? It’s been taken off for repairs. The shipbuilder wants to make you a new model deserving of your standing within the fleet.”

  “I don’t want any other.” His heart sank. Had they really destroyed his inheritance? “What happened to my masthead, sir?”

  Brody shrugged. “Off in storage with the rest of the old artifacts. And those dragon wings? You were lucky we overlooked them thus far.” He clapped Shance on the shoulder. “Honestly, Windkeeper, take care. Some people would consider using a dragon masthead as a sign of treason.”

  Despite his anger, Shance fought the urge to smile. As opposed to being in league with two dragons? Never mind that it was temporary, and that they kept their own secrets. It still felt right to trust them more than the Congruency.

  “General Brody! Captain Windkeeper! I insist you come here at once.” It was General Markem standing aboard The Silver Streak next to Kesia.

  Fear sank into Shance’s heart. She’d failed. He hadn’t prepared her enough. The challenge had been too difficult. His muscles seized, and he felt for his pistol. He didn’t want to use it, but if it came down to it, Kesia would need cover fire to escape—and he would make sure she had it rather than see her and her lovely wings shut away in a Congruency prison.

  Brody gave him one last glare and leaned in closer, his voice a fierce whisper. “You fool no one, Shance Windkeeper. Neither does she. And yet no one here is opposing your hoax. Why do you think that is?”

  Shance’s mouth went dry. “Sir?”

  “Take this. A little extra kick, for old time’s sake.” Brody slipped a flask into his hand. “Since you insist on going along with your charade. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. There are fates worse than arranged marriage. Stay clear of the smoke, or you’ll die in it.”

  Brody drew away and made for the The Silver Streak. Shance followed.

  What could he mean? Shance’s mind returned to the mysterious green smoke from the explosion, which had been curiously absent from the reports after the High Command meeting. Had it suddenly slipped their minds that this smoke suppressed Talents? Where was the talk of rebel involvement? And why was Brody so concerned with a marriage when there were anarchists to repress?

  When this was over, he and Kesia needed to talk and share information. That was part of this arrangement, and now he was far more inclined to listen.

  Plus, if she was keen on exploring, she might be able to help him find that masthead.

  Shance and Brody ascended the gangplank. There stood General Markem—was that a smile on his lips? Shance wasn’t aware the stiff old goat was capable of it. It looked odd, but the glint in his eyes was genuine. Next to him
stood Kesia. Her hair was half out of its tie, and there were grease and oil stains all over her coveralls, arms, and face. What he noticed most was the brightness in her eyes, shining with a glee Shance had never seen in their short time together. She might be trying not to smile, but her amber eyes were glorious. When he had left her, she’d been ready to turn invisible and disappear forever. What had changed?

  General Markem spoke, “The papers Captain Windkeeper turned in may have been late, but they are certainly accurate. First Mechanic Ironsley is one of the most Talented workers I have met. First Mechanic, state your accomplishments.”

  “I have completely repaired the portside engine.”

  Brody raised his eyebrows. “You mean you have diagnosed it and prepared a list of necessary repairs. That has already been done by our own mechanics.”

  “No, I mean I have repaired it. Sir.”

  Her voice was clear and certain, her stare level.

  General Markem spoke up. “I have personally assessed the work, as has the engineer for this vessel. She called it ‘well enough.’ She even said that in the event she had to retire, First Mechanic Ironsley might be a mildly competent potential replacement.”

  “Virna? Chief Engineer Virna Conners? That’s high praise from her.” Shance studied Kesia anew. Everything in him wanted to sweep her off her feet and never let her go, even though she was a dragon. No, because she was a dragon. A beautiful dragon woman who was far more clever and kind and loyal than any other woman he had ever encountered.

  General Brody was frowning. “Naturally, such a thing is impossible. It would be entirely disruptive to the chain of command.”

  “Nonetheless, First Mechanic Ironsley has volunteered to work on The Silver Streak for the remainder of its repairs in dry dock. And I shouldn’t wonder if, with her on our side, we should be back on schedule.” Markem gave another one of those odd smiles.

  “Astonishing.” Brody’s eyes narrowed. “And just how did you accomplish this, First Mechanic Ironsley? What is your Talent?”

  Kesia paused, pressing her lips together, then she bent down and picked up a piece of stray metal. Her fingers worked at it as if it were clay, shaping and molding it, rubbing the edges until at last, she held out a perfectly-hewn piece of copper pipe. “It’s a little like this, sir. Metal, wiring, they all make sense to me. I understand them. The engine was bent out of shape, as were the exhaust pipes and the fuel conductors. Normally, you’d have to put in new ones, but I fixed the ones that were there.”